


Of Flesh and Fire

by krispyscribbles



Series: Rammstein [3]
Category: Rammstein
Genre: BIG OOF, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 17:24:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16067810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krispyscribbles/pseuds/krispyscribbles
Summary: Oliver Riedel's hands have been burned.





	Of Flesh and Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chachamaruchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chachamaruchan/gifts).



> For the very old prompt of: can you write about how the ramm members would react if ollie would get hurt of fire or a object that fell down or smthg i mean make drama and write about their reactions, that may sound weird but i'm a big fan of my faves getting into danger

Rammstein wasn't exactly known for impromptu pyrotechnic experiments on tour. Their stage shows were elaborate and intricate in nature, which meant that there was usually no room for new until the next tour. But Olli was getting bored. 

Standing in the back, playing songs that he and his closest friends wrote was great, sure, but he didn't have the thrill of the fire so close to him. Olli knew that he would quickly tire of the tour and drag down the tour, so he asked Till if he could be more involved with their stage show. 

Offers had gone up of him replacing Flake in the boat for Haifisch, of him swapping places with Paul more often, of him joining the three at the front at the end of the shows. At first, that seemed like the solution, but Olli wanted more. He wanted to feel the lick of the fire against his flesh. 

With careful planning and strategic shipping, Olli managed to retrieve one of Richard's pieces of equipment that he had fitted to his bass. Of course, Richard supported the reuse of the prop, but warned that his hands often blistered when they were used too frequently. 

Olli disregarded Richard’s warnings and planned to play with the prototype bass live at Download. Till, Olli and their resident pyrotechnician sat for hours, discussing the complications with fusing the equipment together. “Of course, we'd make your bass fireproof and the strings non conductive, but that isn't a solid guarantee of your safety,” the pyrotechnician murmured, holding the neck of Olli's bass in his hands. “Just do it,” Olli said fervently, twiddling with a pen in his hands. “Do it as fast as you can, I'll need it in two days time.”

Two days wasn't enough to create a safe bass: Olli was aware of the risks. But looking out at the sea of faceless faces, all cheering in a senseless chant, was becoming something akin to normality. Olli shook the pyrotechnician’s hand, accepting the possibility of injury as soon as he took his bass. The first thing he had done was walk straight to Paul's dressing room - Paul had been especially excited for Olli's new bass. 

Paul had held the bass as though it were the Holy Bible, squinting his eyes at every detail and stroking the strings as one would with a cat. “Beautiful,” Paul declared, straightening his back. “It may actually work.” Olli smiled and sat down, feeling the long forgotten buzz of an exciting show course through his veins. “Don't lie to me, Riedel. You're excited,” Paul teased, receiving a sly smile and a knowing nod. 

“I am. God, it’s been a while,” Olli sighed, catching the water bottle that had been carelessly thrown in his direction. “I’m getting the jitters,” Olli said, twisting the bottle cap off and taking in deep gulps of the water. Paul laughed and looked at the assistant, who gestured for Olli to follow him. 

They talked amicably and Olli couldn't help but show off his bass, talking excitedly about when and how he'd use the fire to compliment the songs. Once Olli turned off to his room, his assistant bid him a good show and turned off, looking to take Richard back to his room. 

Olli shut the door tightly and locked the door, changing into his stage clothing. He made sure to lather himself in chalk powder to add an edge to his typically pristine black clothing. Olli looked at himself in the mirror (which was especially raised because of his unusually tall body) and he smiled, satisfied.

There was a missing aspect to his outfit, though. 

Olli turned to his bass and slung it over his shoulder, admiring himself. “God, Richard would shiver if he ever saw me do this,” Olli muttered to himself, still smiling. His gaze turned southwards, where the bass hung faithfully over his slightly exposed chest. The holes where the flamethrowers peeked out were sanded thoroughly and varnished with his signature black, making it indistinguishable from the rest of his bass. 

“Olli, are you awake?” Christoph yelled, pounding on his door. Olli jumped in fear and quickly took his bass off, holding it by the neck. “Yeah, I'm fine. I'll be with you in a moment.” Olli looked down at himself and exhaled, settling his nerves before swinging the door open. Christoph was waiting on the other side, fiddling with his fingers. “Finally! Till was going to drink all the tequila if you and Paul didn't move your asses,” Christoph joked, slapping Olli on the back. Olli smiled and walked next to Christoph, ducking his head to avoid the dangling exit signs. 

 

There was something wrong. 

Olli could feel it as he played; the cord connected to his bass, which was played off as an AUX cord but was actually pumping kerosene, was too loose. What was supposed to be an innovative shift for Olli became a threat to his safety. He couldn't exactly freeze Mein Herz brennt and beg for someone to give him his spare bass, so he powered on. 

Olli felt dread as Richard's solo began but stood stoically, pointing his bass towards Paul's back. He winced as the first spew of fire from his and Flake's instruments started, which was not amiss to the pyro crew. “You okay, Riedel?” they asked over the ear piece. Who was he to ruin the show? “I'm fine. Keep going,” Olli insisted. 

His decision proved to be detrimental to his hands - the sensation of his hands on fire was not one that he would have expected, but the pain was beyond what he could withstand. His knees buckled in agony and his voice became hoarse as he screamed. Paul immediately turned around, mouth agape in horror as the fire consumed Olli's flesh with a hunger. 

The lights immediately turned off and the sea of faces became one in their joint horror of what they had witnessed. Oliver Riedel's hands had been burned. 

 

Christoph had immediately hopped off his drumset and kneeled down next to Olli, whose hands were shaking. Christoph's questions flew in one ear and out the other in Olli's mind, which was far too busy with processing the meaning of the situation. Were his hands irrevocably damaged? What would that mean to his career? The band? 

“Olli, you need to calm down,” Till said, gripping Olli's shoulders with a certain but gentle hold. “Let go of your bass.” Olli loosened his grip on his instrument, hands still shaking, and Christoph lifted it off of Olli's shoulders. 

“ATTENTION. THE VENUE IS EVACUATING,” the intercom blared, causing the chaos to turn into insanity. People scrambled over people in fear, screaming with no shame. “ATTENTION. THE VENUE IS EVACUATING.” 

Olli was helped to his feet but he seemed incapable of walking, seeing as he slumped over Richard and Flake, bearing his weight on them in shock. They proved to be strong enough to carry him; they managed to walk with him to the emergency services, where he was laid on a gurney. His legs from mid-shin downwards dangled from the gurney but he was put in the back of an ambulance nonetheless. 

Olli was a little bit out of it, but he could see one thing: Till's tear rolling down his cheek. 

 

Olli could feel the itch of the bandages on his fingers. They were heavily wrapped up, leaving Olli with clubs in place of hands. Said man was opening his eyes slowly, breaths slow and deep. His eyes were nothing short of beautiful; greens and blues of all hues danced in his irises, accompanied with calming flecks of gold so often mistaken for yellow. His eyes were wide and innocent in nature but quickly darkened to a storm of anger as soon as he understood the situation before him. 

The wrath in his soul settled when he saw Richard and Paul on either side of him, both asleep. Richard had Fahrenheit 451 resting in his lap, spine bent from how often he read it; his face was finally restful.

Olli hated how much he worked. 

Paul was leaning forward, slumped on the bed. He was using Olli's arm as a pillow, which was strange: Olli was rather bony and had very little fat on top of the muscle. Olli didn't protest because Paul had a smile on his face, seeming to be content as he snored lightly. Olli held his breath as Paul's cheek twitched, only relaxing when Paul made a small noise from the back of his throat and held Olli's arm closer to himself. 

The door gently opened and an exhausted Flake peeked in, smiling at Olli. Every bit of Olli was begging him to stand up, but Flake shook his head. The guitarists were knocked out cold but would spring awake if someone so much as touched their shoulders. Flake opted to sit on Richard's side of the bed, his lack of mass resulting into a small dent on the bed. 

“How are you feeling?” Flake asked, resting a tender hand on Olli's leg. Olli smiled. Everyone seemed to assume that Flake was nothing but a grumpy man, but his compassion for his friends was unrivalled. Olli seldom saw this side of Flake, but he wasn't surprised by the much gentler side of Flake. “My bandages itch,” Olli said, feeling at ease in the company of his closest friends. “How long have they been here?” 

Flake looked at both of them and sighed, looking back up at Olli's face. “Since you got here, maybe,” Flake assumed, nose wrinkling ever so slightly. “Richard was delirious with worry,” Flake commented, making Olli feel bad. 

“How…how long have I been here?” asked Olli, voice hoarse with disuse. The sunlight was streaming in a way that hurt Olli's eyes, so Flake promptly stood up and shut them tightly. “Well, we got here at about half past ten last night. It's, uh, noon. You can expect to leave in the next couple of days,” Flake said, deciding to pluck Richard's book from his lap. 

They both fell silent after that, not needing to talk to be comfortable. Olli had forgotten what it was like to be in a room with his bandmates without saying a single word, but it was a lot better than what he was expecting. Sure, Paul and Richard were technically asleep, but the serenity cancelled out that fact. Olli turned and saw Paul snuggle his arm closer to his body, which would have been endearing had it not been for the faintest line of drool that dripped out of his mouth. Flake snorted at his disgruntled expression but fell silent, choosing to sit on the foot of Olli’s extra long bed. 

Christoph entered not even ten minutes later, which annoyed Olli. He had started to drift off when Christoph peeked in; his shorn hair was still damp from his shower and swept to the side and he donned drop crotch chinos and a v neck shirt. Christoph was holding onto his leather jacket, given the intensity of the heat, and was wearing a slightly pitiful expression on his face. “Hi,” he said, shutting the door behind himself. Olli nodded blearily in reply. “You feeling okay?” Christoph asked, sitting on the vacant side of the two seater Paul was on. 

Olli cleared his throat gently and grunted in the affirmative, shifting his shoulders. “They’ve been out for hours, haven’t they?” Christoph pondered, staring at Paul’s almost angelic face with something akin to nostalgia. Olli smiled at the expression on Christoph’s face, knowing that he was remembering times when Paul was marginally more arrogant and demanding but so much more naive than he was now. “He looks a lot younger, doesn’t he, Flake?” 

Flake nodded in acknowledgement and returned his focus on the book, eyes darting across the paper. Olli looked at each man in the room, wondering what or, more specifically, who these men were prior to the calamity of fame and fortune. Olli certainly couldn’t remember; he was far too juvenile to have become a person beyond the band. But Christoph had managed to serve in the military; Till had established himself as an accomplished basket weaver; Richard, who wasn’t that much older than Olli, had already gotten years of practice by means of isolation. 

“I don’t appreciate being stared at as I sleep,” Richard murmured, stretching his arms up to yawn. Flake dropped his book in shock and muttered under his breath, picking it up and getting back in the rhythm of reading. Olli smiled at the shit-eating grin on Richard’s face, which was morphed by the inevitable yawn. “You’re looking a lot better than last night,” Richard commented, standing up. Several parts of his spine popped in protest, but Richard continued to walk around, stretching his legs out. 

“Paul was worried sick for you; he slept far later than I did.” Richard peeked out of the curtains and drew back, scowling at the heat. “Reminds me of the old days.” Tension seemed to rise out of the most simple of sentences, which obviously wasn’t Richard’s intention, but remembering the easier times of creating music for catharsis brought on a sense of bittersweetness. Paul tended to coddle Olli, which felt strangulating at times, but that had died down as Olli established his capability to be fully independent. 

In the harsh world of stardom, the closeness they all once had with one another had naturally died off, but accidents such as what had happened to Olli was guaranteed to tighten their bonds once again. Paul, speak of the devil, had lifted his head from Olli’s arm and yawned, mouth agape like a fish. “Look who’s awake!” Paul said, fist raised to try and attain some kind of modesty. His sweater was heavily wrinkled and hung off his body in an odd fashion; it seemed to be more familiar seeing as Richard made a gesture for it back. 

“I was hoping that you’d be awake before the others came around, but oh well. Didn’t want you to freak out because I’m the one who is still your emergency contact,” Paul said, bragging in an indirect manner. Olli nodded and winced as he raised his left arm, which was the one Paul was sleeping on. Not only had pins and needles coursed through it, but the hand was beginning to throb in pain. “You have second degree burns on your left hand and they weren’t able to determine the severity in the right hand. Definitely not third degree, but you passed out before they could fully test you,” Paul admitted, wincing at the horrified expression on Olli’s face. 

Flake had stopped reading his book and laid his hand on Olli’s calf, a sorrowful expression on his face. “We had to cancel the rest of the tour. Till is...distraught. And we all mutually decided that it wouldn’t be right to tour without you,” Flake whispered. Olli felt an insurmountable amount of guilt at the implications. Maybe if he hadn’t complained about being bored playing to a crowd of ten thousand people he wouldn’t have been in this debacle. Maybe Till wouldn’t feel like it was his fault. Maybe they would be flying to the next location if Olli hadn’t been ungrateful for the privilege he was in. 

“Till is a little rough, but he definitely isn’t burning himse-” Christoph fell silent at the blow to his ribs from Paul’s elbow. “Till has been drinking for the better part of the early morning, to put it lightly. Johannes has returned him to the hotel but he isn’t sleeping well,” Flake filled in for him, not meaning to guilt trip Olli. Olli, of course, felt bad; Till’s nightmares were akin to self inflicted psychological torture. The number of times Till would wake up him or the others, screaming and incapable of breathing, was reaching numbers that Olli couldn’t remember. 

“As cruel as it sounds, you’re more important in this situation,” Richard said gently, sitting down again. “Your hands need to be tested for functionality, especially because you play the bass. It would be detrimental otherwise.” As though proving Richard’s point, a doctor had knocked on the door, startling the men. 

He seemed to be young; thirty five at most. His hair was tousled and brushed backwards, face flushed as he was met by the four other men in the room. “Good morning,” he whispered, receiving a warm smile from Paul and Christoph. “I’m here to check up on Mr. Riedel. If everyone could leave except for, uh, Richard, that’d be brilliant,” he said. Christoph and Flake stood respectfully, only slightly taller than the man before them. Paul was more reluctant to leave but Olli’s encouraging smile proved to be enough for him to close the door tightly behind himself. 

“Well, your friends certainly have character. Let’s get started, Mr. Riedel.”

 

“...we've prescribed antibiotics and pain medication under your name, which you can pick up after this. We estimate your time of recovery to be three to five weeks because of the varying severity in both your hands,” Doctor Evans said, donning a tight lipped smile. “You're a lucky man, Mr. Riedel. If it weren't for the fast reactions of your team, your hands would have been unusable.” Evans rose and walked to the door, swinging it open and shutting it with confidence. 

Richard was stark white, given that he couldn't peel his eyes away from Oliver’s red and blistered flesh. Olli, who had yet to say a word, simply stared at Richard's face. It was fascinating to see his face somehow lose all color, but, given the state of his hands, it was an understandable horror. “I think…I think I'm going to be sick,” Richard whispered, holding back a gag. 

Olli smiled grimly and gestured to the bathroom, allowing Richard to sprint into the adjacent room. Paul entered and smiled sadly, having already been through the briefing. “You okay?” Paul asked, sitting where Richard had situated himself. 

Olli shook his head, not bothering to lie to Paul. “I feel as though I've disappointed hundreds of thousands of people. I feel a staggering amount of responsibility,” Olli said, voice hoarse from disuse. “This wouldn't have happened if I settled for my role-”

Paul's hand darted and grasped Olli's cheek, looking straight at Olli with eyes ablaze. “Don't apologize for desire,” Paul said, swiping his thumb across Olli's cheek. He had been crying. “Your role is to be the best damn bassist you can be. It was unfair of us to not let you engage with the pyrotechnics and keep you in the back. We should have known how you felt.”

Olli dared to raise his hands. He had seen them, but the horror of the damage still had him in shock. They weren't supposed to be this helpless. He wasn't supposed to be this helpless. “When can I leave? I hate this place,” Olli said lamely, knowing that Paul would seek and find out as quickly as possible. 

As Olli predicted, Paul swiped his thumb across his cheek once more before standing up, letting Christoph take his place. “I'll be back soon. I just have to ask Dr. Evans,” Paul promised, shutting the door behind himself gently. 

Christoph stood over Olli, pity written all over his face. Usually, a person would reject the idea of sympathy, but Olli was getting tired of putting the strong façade up. If he was going to be vulnerable, it was best that Christoph was around. 

It was strange, but Christoph was Olli's match when it came to emotional strife. He had the right amount of comfort and practical support that suited Olli, which was why Olli had gravitated to Christoph in moments of emotional exposure. 

“I…feel as though I am no longer useful,” Olli admitted. “I am not defined by my profession, but my livelihood has always been because of my hands.” Olli's breath shuddered and his heart rate monitor beeped a little faster. He wished Paul was here to wipe his tears. 

Olli inhaled sharply and composed himself. “Who am I?” he asked simply, receding to the meek personality in defense. Christoph sat down and stared at Olli, eyes filled with nothing but morbid fascination. Olli shifted in his bed, feeling the tag itch his thigh. 

Christoph crossed his legs at the ankle, leaning back into his seat in a slouch. Who was Oliver Riedel? He sure as hell didn’t know. They simply didn’t interact enough to have qualitative answer. This didn’t mean that Christoph didn’t know the basics about Olli; favorite color, food preferences, gear setup. He knew that much. But beneath that all was an enigma, where light was too afraid to even brush against the edges. He was afraid of what he might find - maybe it was that terrifying.

Christoph mulled on his words, staring at what had served Olli so faithfully. “I don’t know, to be honest,” Christoph said, flinching at Olli’s look of despair. “You are defined only by yourself. I only know a dimension of you, but you hold the key.” Christoph uncrossed his legs, spreading them at shoulder’s length. He leaned forwards, bearing his elbows onto his thighs. Christoph stood to his feet and laid a heavy hand on Olli’s shoulder, expressing his own internal conflict (“I should have moved faster; I could have saved his hands.”) with a simple gesture. “I’ll see you when Paul says it’s okay for you to visit,” Christoph joked, walking towards the door with a confident stride.

Christoph paid him one last look and just like that, Olli was alone again.

**Author's Note:**

> krispy-posts on Tumblr


End file.
